Until recently I had believed in something like lack
And even something like lack of lack, all this
Occurring while listening to Willie, age 9, listen to Click

And Clack, the Tappet Brothers, a September Saturday,
Spritzing the windshield for a better view and thinking
Of gommalacca, Italian shellac, that one thousand
Lac bugs make a pound of flakes, and from these
Someone is singing at seventy-eight revolutions per minute,
Grooved and circular and spiraling down, smoke

Rising from the phonograph, an ignis fatuus
Of sound, and O to be inexpensive, nonflammable,
Versatile, and popular, a Bakelite bracelet around
Marina's wrist, or to crack a window, for all
Empty spaces are always trying to suck in
Something to be filled, now the sound of the whisk

Broom on a lapel, now the zoom lens retracting,
Now vroom, now Ezra Loomis Pound removing
His shoes in the mudroom, and Blaise Pascal falling

Fast into emptiness as emptiness, Baruch de Spinoza with
Lens dust in his lungs, to give us all some breathing
Room on a day of horror vacui, with his laughter and laughter.